Much Ado About Not-Dean
by babybluecas
Summary: Just a demon Dean, doing demon things - and the not so demon things, too


A/N: This 'verse is co-written with amazing **tco.** For more deanmon extravaganza (no worries about the order—there is none) follow the numbers: s/12663540/1/ (ok sorry for inconvenience, ffnet hates its own links, apparently, typing those in is worth it, I promise)

* * *

Dean comes into the main room just in time to catch Sam and his new favorite hunting buddy, Cas, packed and ready to leave, decked out in what's supposed to be a hunting gear but is only ammo belts short of full-on Rambo.

"We're going up against the Predator or something?"

"No, smartass." Sam doesn't even spare him a look, too busy stuffing his pockets with bullets. "Not the Predator. Worse."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Alien? Godzilla?"

"Al-mi'raj," Cas explains, pulling a plaid hunter hat over his ears. "It stabbed two lumberjacks to death in the last week."

"Okay," Dean murmurs like he has any idea what that is. The name might not tell him much, but going by Sam's and Cas's attires alone, seems like a big-ass scary s.o.b. "Gimme a minute to get my khakis and we're good to—"

"You're not going," Sam cuts him off.

Dean should have seen it coming. Still he asks, "And why is that?" with his most bored tone, out of routine rather than to get the answer.

He knows the answer. It always goes the same way. First, Sam will say, "Because you're a demon."

"Because you're a demon," Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "I didn't raise you to be the world's worst tactician."

Because, seriously? Demon? Superpowers? He can probably smite the big, bad al-mi'raj like an overweight fly. But hey, if they prefer to keep up their second-class-citizen-no-good-demon-keep-at-bay thing, they can go ahead and get their asses whooped.

"You didn't—" Sam starts, but Dean stops him with a wave of hand.

"Fine, bye, good luck," he says before turning around. "But I'm not bringing you back to life if you get yourselves killed."

Sam grumbles something after him, but Dean's no longer listening, already halfway to his room.

Five minutes later, the Bunker's door shut behind them and Dean's left, happily, to his own devices. Another five minutes and curiosity gets the best of him.

"How do you spell almi—" he mutters, fumbling with his phone.

At last, he cracks open the wikipedia page. Before he even skims the article for the ways to kill the creature, the attached drawing tells him all he needs to know.

"Son of a—"

He exits the article and presses one on speed dial. He really needs to update his contact list.

"Hey, Crowley, d'you got your mom there somewhere?"

—

Locating al-mi'raj is a walk in the park. Getting to it is a bit more of a trek in a bit more of a forest, but they arrive there way before Sam and Cas, who are probably lost and fighting over the directions.

They stroll out of the west side of the forest—Rowena first, her steps never wavering despite her high heels, in a true witchy fashion; Dean following right behind her—and into a wide stretch of a man-made clearing, a wound, for now riddled with tree stumps poking out of the tall grass and soon to be leveled and covered in asphalt of a bypass.

"This explains everything." Rowena leans to run her fingertips across the naked rings of what must have been majestic once. "The headcount could be bigger."

No one calls things "dangerous" and "must be killed" faster than those who'll Miley Cyrus into their homes and spit on the remains, then get offended that an inhabitant heard of standing their ground.

"I'm all for letting this puppy do its job," Dean assures her, "but there're two fearless hunters coming this way so—"

Rowena shrugs with an innocent smile. "Well, you know, I could always…"

Dean only smirks, amused, half-listening to Rowena fantasizing about the things she could do in defense of the forest's horned protector, as he sweeps over the area in search for it. It doesn't take him long, the light, yellowish fur serves for a lousy camouflage against the dark tree trunks.

"There." Dean points out to a shape a few yards behind the line of trees.

They resume their trek ever so quietly not to provoke the creature. Surely, a little stabbing can't possibly hurt Dean, but he likes the shirt he's got on and he'd prefer to keep it holeless.

"Are you sure of the spell?" he whispers, catching up to Rowena.

"It will work," she replies, which doesn't exactly answer Dean's question.

"But it won't harm it, right?"

Rowena shakes her head, making the cascade of her red hair bounce around. "Just put it to sleep."

"Okay."

Dean keeps glancing over her shoulder at a two-feet-long patch of light fur stretched out in the grass. When she stops abruptly, he collides with her.

"What are you doing?" he asks, when Rowena lifts her palms.

"Casting the spell," she replies like it's obvious.

Dean grasps her wrist, lowers her hand. "Wait a second."

He overtakes her on the narrow path and, only as slow as before, he moves gently towards al-mi'raj.

"What are you—?"

"I'm good with bunnies," Dean assures.

He stops a dozen feet away from the resting creature, squats, never taking his eyes off it. And it never takes its eyes off him, either. Must have watched them for a while now, yet never bothered to so much as wag its long ears. What's more important, never went to sharpen its pointy, black horn standing out between them either.

"Aren't you a big bunnycorn," Dean says, barely over his breath.

He's not really sure what he's trying to accomplish here. With Rowena watching him skeptically and the creature staring at him curiously (or blood-thirstily, who knows), it's beginning to feel like waiting to be hired as a pincushion.

But then, it doesn't. Even as al-mi'raj tips its head to the side and begins lazily climbing to its paws.

Here comes nothing, Dean decides, hoping Rowena's a quick spell-caster, and pulls out his open hand towards the bunnycorn.

And it comes to him. A few quick leaps that have Dean just the slightest bit concerned, and it's there, right before him, pushing its chin into Dean's palm. The rays of sun that found their way through the treetops, gleam along the grooves of its black, spiraling horn, on its sharp point hovering inches away from Dean's sternum. Dean doesn't mind it, at all, because his mind's on the creature's soft fur beneath his thumb.

"Would you look at this, it likes me," Dean murmurs to Rowena, never pausing the caress nor taking eyes off it.

"I can see that," Rowena replies, amused. "Can we—?"

"Aren't you the cutest badass," Dean coos, his other hand reaching carefully to bunny's back for maximum petting experience.

Al-mi'raj leans in.

—

Dried twigs crack somewhere in the west, far enough that Dean's human ears wouldn't have caught the sound.

"We should—"

Before he gets to finish, al-mi'raj slips out of Rowena's hold and springs back, weight shifted to its hind legs, fur standing along its spine. Its ears stand up, listening in for the approaching intruders.

So much for Dean's hilarious plan of moving al-mi'raj and leaving Sam and Cas to wander around the woods 'til nightfall. What a shame.

"Easy," he tries to soothe his new friend, casting his eyes to where it glares.

They're close. He should have acted sooner. But it's too late now, the bunny's out of their grasp, untouchable. Defense mode, for now, but not for much longer. As soon as Cas's and Sam's figures tear through the nearest trees—

Another crack. Could those guys be any louder? Hunters Dean's ass.

The barrels of their rifles are the first things to poke out from the bushes.

"No need to be so dramatic," Dean calls to them. "But I'd stay back if I were you."

"Dean, what are you—?"

Sam doesn't get to finish his question. Al-mi'raj springs forward. Head low, horn pointed, it charges.

Ten yards, nine yards, eight—

Sam points his weapon, as well, finger on the trigger—

His rifle flies out of his hands and lands on the ground three feet away. Cas's follows right after. A mix of terror and betrayal paints their faces. Dean pushes his hand into his pocket and only barely refrains from innocent whistling.

Rowena's got the spell ready on her lips. She casts it before al-mi'raj leaps. Hit, it recoils, stamps around, disoriented. It flips to its side in the grass and stays there, unmoving.

"Was that necessary?" Dean barks, rushing to it. It's alive, as Rowena promised, just snoozing softly, its paw twitching from time to time. "I told you to back off."

"Dean, it's al-mi'raj," Cas explains, for some reason. "The monster we came here to hunt."

Dean gives him a withering look and doesn't grace him with a word.

"It almost killed me, Dean," Sam whines.

"Should have left it to me, then," Dean snaps. He slips his palms beneath the bunnycorn and lifts it up, holds securely in his arms like it's not two feet tall, not counting the deadly horn. "It warmed up to me."

He should really give it a name.

"Oh?" Sam's eyebrows ride to his hairline in the bitchiest fashion. "That's 'cause you're a demon," he accuses as if he isn't stating the obvious.

The corner of Dean's lip curls up. "I like to think it's because I'm a bunny magnet."

He regrets the words as soon as he says them, because really? What does that even mean? He still manages to keep up the smirk against the varied levels of confusion on everyone's faces. Except for the bunnycorn, and not just because it's fast asleep, but because it would never judge him like that.

Sam takes a step forward. "This isn't a pet, Dean. It killed people!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "So do wild animals, when folks can't stay in their lane," he says, then turns to Rowena, "Can we go now? This is getting tedious."

"Any time." Rowena flashes a smile.

"Wait, wait!" Sam calls, palms raised. "What do you plan to do with it? You can't put it near pe—"

"Rowena will take care of Stabby until I kick Crowley off his throne and take his place," Dean rolls the words off his tongue in the plainest tone he can muster, as if he practiced them.

He might have practiced them. And it was worth it, for two paled faces and dropped jaws, for their wide eyes and loss of speech.

Dean doesn't wait for them to regain their basic social functions. With a quick, "See ya at home, guys," he's gone.

—

The only thing the wooden cottage misses is a chicken leg. And dead animal parts lying around inside, thank fuck. The front yard, rather tiny, is overgrown with herbs and whatnots. The back door leads out straight to the unrestrained Canadian wilderness.

"Neat place you got yourself here," Dean compliments, his fingertips patter softly on the wicker armrest.

Drawn to the sound, al-mi'raj climbs to his hind legs, his whiskers tickle Dean's knuckles. Dean smiles, slipping his fingers beneath Stabby's chin, giving him a little scratching that he demands—as formidable monsters as him tend to do.

Rowena takes a sip of her tea. "Sometimes you just have to get away from all the drama and relax."

Dean nods. "Truer words were never spoken."

If only it was that easy. Maybe he should get himself a cottage like this, somewhere far from Lebanon, far from human means of transportation, so that his two Pains in the Ass™ can't find him. Some tropical, desert island sounds great.

Not to mention the other, obvious perk of his own place, close to nature—he wouldn't have to leave Stabby at a mercy of a witch.

"Your al-mi'raj will feel good in his new home," Rowena assures him as if reading his thoughts. There isn't a speck of irony or veiled threat in her voice.

Still, Dean lifts a finger. "He better, 'cause I will drop by to check that he's alive and well," he warns. "I know what you witches do to bunnies."

"I'm not that kind of witch," Rowena huffs, lips pursed, chin stuck up.

A glare from Dean melts her offended resolve into a fond smile.

"I like Stabby," she admits.

And that has to be enough. The sun's halfway behind the horizon by now, and the afternoon has been weird as it was, no need to overstay the welcome.

"You be good, Stabby," Dean orders, lowering his face to him. "No stabbing people, alright?"

Stabby doesn't answer, he just sticks out his pink tongue to lick Dean's thumb. Dean bites his lip, struggling not to dissolve into a puddle of joy, so unfitting of a Knight of Hell. He only saves his face by giving his bunnycorn the last rub and getting up from the armchair.

He turns to Rowena.

"Anything happens, you call me," he says and ignores the funny look he gets in response.

Instead, he shoots Stabby a brief last glance, waves him bye-bye with his fingers and leaves.


End file.
